Grace and Sylvie Read online

  For Delilah Harris

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Contents

  Chapter 1: A Surprising Turn of Events

  Chapter 2: The Right Words

  Chapter 3: Something in Common

  Chapter 4: Little Baby, Big Change

  Chapter 5: Calamity in the Kitchen

  Chapter 6: Lost!

  Chapter 7: Cousins and Friends

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  Preview of Tenney

  Copyright

  hen I got home from school, I tossed my flowered backpack onto my bed and raced downstairs. More people than usual were lined up in front of our shop. June in Paris meant that the tourist season was in full swing, so La Pâtisserie was especially busy. Soon it would be summer vacation, and I’d be able to spend the whole day helping in the bakery. I’d have lots of time in the kitchen with Papa, and I’d get to decorate pastries, too. I couldn’t wait!

  I jumped the last two steps and bounced through the bakery door, ducking behind the counter and into the kitchen. “Bonjour!” I called, inhaling the wheaty scent of fresh-baked bread.

  Papa, in his white baker’s uniform, was loading trays of raw croissants into the proofing machine, where they would rise at just the right temperature. In one smooth, balletic motion, he whisked the trays from counter to shelf, his arms strong from years of kneading bread and lifting bags of flour.

  “Bonjour, mon petit rayon de soleil,” he said, putting down a tray and kissing me on both cheeks. I loved it when he called me his little ray of sunshine. I gave him a squeeze.

  “Bonjour, Sylvie,” said Colette, Papa’s summer intern. “Would you like to help?”

  “Oui!” I said, reaching for my white apron.

  Colette and I had been friends from the moment we met. She understood the importance of perfect pastries, and we liked to sing while we mixed and sifted and spooned. Today her dark brown hair was tied back, and she was wearing one of the flowered aprons that she sewed herself. She was working on a tray of tartes, carefully placing raspberries on each individual pie. We finished them together, and Colette carried them out to the waiting customers. When she returned, she handed me a canister of powdered sugar.

  “I saved some decorating for you,” she said.

  “Merci,” I said, thanking her.

  Two dozen of my favorite cupcake-sized chocolate treats had already cooled off on the counter—chocolat au coeur coulant. I took my time with the sugar, gently shaking the canister so as not to make a mess. Then I did some larger cakes, including a gâteau à la rhubarbe, the special rhubarb cake we make only in the spring (secret ingredient: yogurt!). I saved the almond sponge cake—gâteau aux amandes—for last. It’s made from my grandmother’s recipe, and seeing it made me think of Grand-mère and how much I’ve missed her since she passed away. Until a few months ago, she and I took long walks together every week. She could name all the different flowers in the Luxembourg Gardens, the common names and the Latin ones. She’s the one who taught me how to plant roses and ivy in our apartment’s window boxes.

  At the kitchen counter, Colette worked next to me, but she didn’t have to keep an eye on what I was doing. Sprinkling sugar is one of my special jobs. It’s easy and fun, and I’ve been doing it forever. When I finished, I tackled a much harder task: using a pastry bag to pipe rosettes of crème chantilly—sweetened whipped cream—in between the cream puffs on top of a St. Honoré cake. Colette had taught me how, guiding my hand until my rosettes were perfectly even.

  “Those look great,” she said when I was done. “Formidable.”

  My cheeks grew warm, and I wasn’t even near the oven. I glanced at Papa, eager to see if he’d noticed. He’s usually proud of my work and tells me so. But he was giving directions to Emilie, Julien, and Sébastien, the other bakers, and I knew not to interrupt. I must have sighed out loud, because suddenly Colette’s arm was around my shoulder.

  “He has lots to do now that your maman isn’t working in the afternoons,” she said.

  “I know,” I shrugged. “It’s okay.” Still, I was disappointed. Lately Papa was so busy, and Maman was so tired! Everything was changing, and I didn’t like it at all.

  That evening, after I cleared the dishes from the table, Papa and Maman asked me to sit with them. Maman is actually my stepmother, but she’s the only mother I’ve ever known. My real mother died when I was so young, I can’t remember her at all. A few years ago Papa married Sophie, and she became my maman.

  Tonight, Maman’s chair was pushed way back from the table to make room for her belly. Le bébé would be here soon, I could tell. Napoléon, our golden tabby cat named after the French emperor, jumped onto my lap. I stroked him quietly.

  “The doctor told Maman she must stay in bed until the baby comes,” said Papa.

  I turned to Maman. “Stay in bed? Are you sick?” I knew Maman had been tired, but this sounded serious.

  “Non, everything is fine, Sylvie,” she said. “I just need to stay off my feet. I can’t work in the bakery anymore—not until after the baby is born.”

  My mind raced. We had lost Grand-mère just last month. What if something happened to Maman? What would Papa and I do without her? Then I had another thought. If Maman couldn’t work in the bakery, Papa would be even busier. My stomach twisted.

  “We’ve invited my sister—your Aunt Karen—to come from the United States to stay with us for five weeks,” said Maman.

  “She’ll be bringing your cousin Grace,” added Papa.

  “Aunt Karen will help around the house, and you and Grace can get to know each other better,” said Maman.

  I felt like someone had turned me upside down. The plan had been for Grand-mère to help when the baby arrived. Now she was gone, and Aunt Karen and Cousin Grace were coming instead. I hardly knew them. I felt shy just thinking about it, and that made me miss Grand-mère even more. What else was going to change once le bébé was born?

  I took a deep breath. I had to show Papa and Maman that they could count on me no matter what happened.

  I sat up as tall as I could. “I can help, too,” I said. “There’s lots I can do.”

  “Of course there is,” said Maman.

  “Laundry. Cooking. I can shop. I could even…try to work the counter in the bakery.”

  Papa glanced at Maman. They both knew I never work the counter. I get tongue-tied just looking at strangers.

  “For now,” said Papa gently, “why don’t you just help Maman here at home?”

  “I can still work in the bakery, can’t I?” I asked in alarm.

  “Of course!” said Papa, looking at his watch. “You’re our best sugar-sprinkler. And you’re getting pretty good with the pastry bag, too.” He leaned over and gave me a hug.

  “Merci, Papa,” I said, squeezing back.

  Papa stood and kissed Maman on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, heading for the stairs.

  I wished Papa could watch television or play a game with me after dinner, like other fathers. But as usual he had to check on a batch of bread that was rising in the bakery. “I’ll take good care of Maman, I promise,” I called after him. Turning to her, I added, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  But I did worry.

  That night I shut my yellow curtains and lay in bed, my mind running in circles. Was Maman really all right? What were Aunt Karen and Cousin Grace like? I’d met them only once, at Papa and Maman’s wedding in Boston two years ago. Certainly it would be nice to have company during the summer, when most of my friends go away on family vacation. But how would I talk to Grace
? She didn’t know any French the first time we met. Did she know any now? What if we can’t talk at all? My English isn’t very good, and I feel funny speaking it outside of school. Maman and I sometimes speak English at home so I can practice. She’s very patient with my mistakes—and I make a lot of them. But English isn’t my best subject. What if Grace thinks I’m not very smart?

  I whispered my worries to Napoléon, who cuddled closer. “I miss Grand-mère,” I told him, scratching his soft belly. He began to purr.

  Even with the curtains closed, there was light in the room. Paris is so far north that at this time of year the sun sets late, and it’s not completely dark until eleven. I could see the pictures of flowers I’d been taping to the walls since Grand-mère died. Daffodils, roses, tulips, and lilies smiled down at me.

  The cat stretched and curled up behind my knees. “You’re une crème, Napoléon,” I said. You don’t care if I’m shy or my English is terrible. You always understand how I feel.”

  He blinked his cool green eyes. I began to sing Grand-mère’s favorite lullaby, the one she used to sing to me when I was a baby:

  Fais dodo, Sylvie ma petite,

  Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo.

  Maman est en haut,

  Qui fait des gâteaux.

  Papa est en bas,

  Qui fait du chocolat.

  Go to sleep, Sylvie my little one,

  Go to sleep, you will have your milk.

  Mama is upstairs,

  making some cakes.

  Papa is downstairs,

  making chocolate.

  The song that used to comfort me now made me sad. I stroked Napoléon’s velvety ears. Grand-mère was gone, and the new baby would be here soon. The American relatives I barely knew were coming to stay. It was all so confusing, and I didn’t have a recipe to fix it.

  he night before Aunt Karen and Cousin Grace arrived, I emptied the bottom drawer of my dresser and cleaned out my closet to make room for their things. Like most Paris apartments, ours is very small. It was going to be a tight squeeze with a new baby, and now there would be two more people.

  I took a bunch of clothes I’d outgrown and made a pile to donate to La Croix Rouge, the Red Cross. Even if le bébé was a girl, we had no place to store hand-me-downs. As I worked, I hummed along to the classical music that Maman had put on in the living room.

  As promised, I’d been helping Maman with chores around the house. I’d thought “bed rest” meant that she wouldn’t get out of bed at all, not even to take a shower. I figured she’d be really dirty by the time the baby was born! It turned out she could get up once in a while, as long as she didn’t do anything too strenuous.

  In the back of the closet there was a doll-sized pocketbook with a broken clasp, a crushed hat from a long-ago birthday party, and a paper fan with a hole in it. I dumped them in the garbage. It felt good to get rid of old stuff. I also found a daisy-shaped key ring that Grand-mère had given me. I rubbed it for good luck and put it on my desk, where it could remind me of Grand-mère.

  The next morning I woke up early, too nervous to sleep. Papa had been in the bakery for hours already, making sure everything was ready for the morning rush. Customers often stopped on their way to work to buy an espresso coffee and a croissant or a pain au chocolat, a flaky pastry filled with chocolate. Then they’d sit at the small round tables inside and outside the bakery and read the newspaper, or just watch people walking by, many with their little dogs.

  By the time I’d finished breakfast—a glass of milk and a buttery brioche roll with homemade apricot jam—I was bursting with excitement.

  “When will they be here?” I asked Maman for the millionth time. “Can I get you anything? I cleaned out my closet. Will they be hungry when they arrive? Do you think Grace will have a cell phone?” I’d wanted a cell phone for so long, but not many kids in France have them.

  Maman laughed at my rush of questions. “I’m excited, too.” she said. “I can’t wait to see my sister. I really miss her.”

  Maman and Aunt Karen had grown up in a small town in Massachusetts, where their parents owned a bakery. Then Maman came to Paris to study pastry making and met Papa. The rest, as they say, is de l’histoire. History.

  “Is Aunt Karen sorry she played ‘school’ with you when you were kids?” I asked.

  Maman looked at me, curious. “Why would she be sorry?”

  “Because you were the student and she was the teacher, and she taught you so much about France that when you grew up, you moved here. Far away from your family.”

  Maman chuckled. “No, she’s not sorry. We loved playing school. Besides, it was good practice—she’s a teacher now, after all. And my being here gives her an excuse to visit Paris.”

  “Why would she need an excuse?” I said. “We have the best pastries!”

  Maman laughed. Then she looked thoughtful. “You know, I always looked up to Aunt Karen because she was my big sister.”

  “It’s hard to picture you as a little kid,” I said.

  “Our new baby will look up to you. You’re going to be a wonderful big sister.”

  “Do you really think so?” I said. “What if I can’t figure out how?”

  “It’ll come naturally. You’ll see.” Maman didn’t seem worried, but I was.

  Maman looked at her watch. “The plane lands soon, but it’ll be a while before they get here. Remember when we flew to the States for the wedding? First Karen and Grace have to wait for their luggage, and then they have to go through customs to have their passports stamped. They’ll take a taxi from the airport, but you know how bad the traffic can be.”

  I nodded. I know all about traffic. We live in the sixth arrondissement—one of the twenty districts of Paris. Our street near St. Sulpice Church is fairly quiet, but I’ve seen cars on the main boulevards backed up for blocks.

  I was jumpy, so Maman gave me a new magazine, and I busied myself cutting out more pictures of flowers to decorate my bedroom. When the phone rang, I leaped up. “Sylvie!” called Maman. “That was Colette calling from the shop! They’re here!”

  I flung down the magazine and flew to the top of the stairs. Aunt Karen and Grace were standing at the bottom, smiling up at us. Grace looked the same as at the wedding, only taller. She’s nine—a year older than me. She wore her dark-brown hair long, with bangs pushed to one side. Seeing her, my stomach fluttered with excitement. Or was it nervousness? I couldn’t tell. Would I have to speak English now?

  “Bonjour! Bienvenue à Paris! Welcome to Paris!” Papa said, coming through the bakery door and slapping flour off his hands. He carried up their suitcases and exchanged kisses on both cheeks with Grace and Aunt Karen, as French people do. I felt suddenly shy, but made myself step forward to kiss Aunt Karen. I kissed Grace, too, though I think she felt as awkward as I did, because she bumped her head into my nose. Too late, I remembered that Americans don’t kiss on both cheeks.

  Maman came to the doorway and kissed Grace. Then she held out her arms to Aunt Karen, and they gave each other a giant hug.

  “Sophie, you look ready to burst,” said Aunt Karen, looking at Maman’s belly.

  “You may be the big sister, but I’m the bigger sister,” joked Maman.

  Aunt Karen laughed and put an arm around Maman’s shoulder. “I’m so glad we’re here,” she said.

  “Me, too,” said Maman.

  After the adults made a fuss about how much Grace and I had grown, I fetched the small bouquet of roses that I’d picked from my window box for Aunt Karen.

  “How lovely!” said Aunt Karen. “Merci, Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie grew them herself,” Maman said in English, speaking slowly so that I could try to follow the conversation.

  I handed Grace a little blue bag with La Pâtisserie printed on the side. I’d packed the bag carefully with macarons and a mini tarte that I’d decorated.

  “Thank you,” said Grace, peeking inside. “Wow, these pastries are really beautiful!”

  I blush
ed. “Je t’en prie.”

  Papa leaned down. “Here’s a chance to practice your English,” he said to me in French.

  I thought a moment. “You’re welcome,” I said in English, looking at my shoes. He was right, but it felt strange to speak English outside of school with anyone other than Maman.

  We gave Aunt Karen and Grace a tour of the apartment, which didn’t take long. Then I took Grace to my room, pulled out the extra mattress from under the bed, and showed her the closet and dresser.

  She looked around. “Thank you. Merci,” she said, followed by a rush of English.

  Had she said something about my room? Had I left enough space for her clothes? I had no idea.

  When I didn’t answer, Grace started to unpack, carefully unfolding and refolding her clothes and placing them in the dresser in neat little piles. I tried to think of something to say, but the English flew out of my head. My shoulders drooped as I realized that getting to know Grace was going to be hard. She didn’t seem to know much French. And what if she laughed when I tried to speak English?

  Unsure of what to do, I sat on my bed and cut out a picture of yellow tulips from a magazine. Grace unpacked slowly, so I glued the picture to some red construction paper and taped it to the wall. Maman came in to say hello, speaking to Grace in English. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of what she said. Napoléon came in to say hello, too. He pretended not to look at Grace, but I could tell he was keeping an eye on her. When she tried to pet him, he ran away.

  I was glad when Papa came back up from the bakery at lunchtime. I’d prepared most of the meal yesterday while Maman sat at the kitchen table, her feet propped on a chair: roast chicken, cold asparagus wrapped in strips of carrot, and potatoes. There was plenty of Papa’s bread too, of course—a couple of long, thin baguettes with soft centers and perfect, crisp crusts. We finished with two cow cheeses, a chèvre, or goat cheese, and some stewed apples. Grace shook her head when Maman offered her one of the sharp-smelling cheeses. Grace said “stinky” and wrinkled her nose. I giggled. “Stinky” was a funny-sounding word. “What does it mean, Papa?” I whispered as Maman handed me the plate.