The Sweetness of Forgetting by Kristin Harmel Read Free Book Online Page A

anything when you were married to Dad, you wouldn’t be divorced right now,” she says finally, over the whir of the mixer.
    My breath catches in my throat and I stare at her. “What are you talking about? I showed emotion.”
    She turns the mixer off. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Only to, like, send me to my room and stuff. When did you ever act like you were happy to be with Dad?”
    “I was happy!”
    “Whatever,” she says. “You couldn’t even tell Dad you loved him.”
    I blink at her. “Did he say that to you?”
    “What, like I’m not old enough to figure things out on my own?” she asks, but from the way she avoids my gaze, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
    “Annie, it’s not appropriate for your father to be saying bad things about me to you,” I say. “There are a lot of things about our relationship that you don’t understand.”
    “Like what?” It’s a challenge, and she gazes at me coolly.
    I weigh my options, but in the end, I know it’s not appropriate to drag our daughter into an adult battle that isn’t hers to fight. “That’s between me and your dad.”
    She laughs at that and rolls her eyes. “ He trusts me enough to talk to me,” she says. “And you know what? You ruin everything, Mom.”
    Before I can reply, the front door to the bakery chimes. Iglance at my watch. It’s a few minutes before six, our official opening time, but Annie must not have locked the door behind her when she came in.
    “We’ll continue this later, young lady,” I say sternly.
    “Whatever,” she mutters under her breath. She turns back to the batter she’s mixing, and I watch for a second as she adds some flour and then some milk, then a dash of vanilla.
    “Hey, Hope, you back there?” It’s Matt’s voice, from the front of the store, and I snap out of it.
    I hear Annie say “Of course it’s him” under her breath, but I pretend not to as I make my way up front.

    Mrs. Koontz and Mrs. Sullivan come in at 7:00 a.m. as usual, and for once, Annie rushes out to wait on them. Usually, she’s happier to be in the kitchen, baking cupcakes and miniature pies with her iPod on, effortlessly ignoring me until she has to go to school. But today, she’s sunshine and smiles, whisking into the main room and pouring their coffee before they even have a chance to order.
    “Here, let me help you to your seats,” she says, juggling two coffee mugs and a little pitcher of cream as they trail behind her, exchanging glances.
    “Why, thank you, Annie,” Mrs. Sullivan says as Annie puts the coffees and cream down and pulls out her chair for her.
    “You’re welcome!” Annie replies brightly. For a moment, she sounds exactly like the girl who inhabited her body before the divorce. Mrs. Koontz murmurs a thank-you too, and Annie chirps, “Yes, ma’am!”
    She hovers while they each take their first sips of coffee, and she’s practically hopping from foot to foot by the time Mrs. Sullivan takes a bite of her blueberry muffin and Mrs. Koontz picks up her cinnamon-sugar doughnut.
    “Um, can I, like, ask you a question?” Annie asks. I’m tidying up behind the counter, and I pause, straining to hear what she wants to know.
    “You may, dear,” Mrs. Koontz says. “But you mustn’t use like in the middle of a sentence that way.”
    “Huh?” Annie asks, confused. Mrs. Koontz raises an eyebrow, and Annie’s smart enough to correct herself. “I mean, excuse me, ” she amends.
    “The word like is not a space holder in a sentence,” Mrs. Koontz tells my daughter seriously. I duck behind the counter to hide my smile.
    “Oh,” Annie says. “I mean, I know.” I peek over the counter and see her face flaming red. I feel bad for her; Mrs. Koontz, who’d been my tenth-grade English teacher years ago, is a tough cookie. I think about coming to Annie’s defense, but before I have a chance, Mrs. Sullivan jumps in.
    “Oh, Barbara, give the child a break,” she says, swatting her friend on the arm.