It didn’t mat er.
I had thought Lily would be methodical—a checklist kind of baker. Much to my surprise—and delight—she was not like this at all. Instead, I had thought Lily would be methodical—a checklist kind of baker. Much to my surprise—and delight—she was not like this at all. Instead, she was impulsive, instinctive, combining ingredients at whim. There was still a seriousness to her endeavor—she wanted to get this right—
but there was also a playfulness. Because she realized that this was playing, after all.
“Snap!” Lily said, feeding me an Oreo Krispie treat.
“Crackle,” I purred, feeding her a banana crème Krispie treat.
“Pop!” we said together, feeding each other from a pan of plum-and-Brie Krispie treats, which were gruesome.
She caught me looking at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Your lightness,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. “It’s disarming.”
“Well,” she said, “I have a treat for you, too.”
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
“I’d say we have treats for everyone in your extended family,” I told her. “And that’s saying a lot.” She shook her head. “No. A dif erent kind of treat. You’re not the only one who can make secret plans, you know.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, do you like to be surprised, or do you like to anticipate?”
“Anticipate,” I said. Then, when she opened her mouth to tell me, I jumped in with, “No no no—I like to be surprised.”
“Okay then,” she said, smiling in a way that was almost devilish. “Let’s pack up these treats, clean up this kitchen, and take this show on the road.”
“Somewhere there are babies to catch,” I said.
“And words to find,” she added mischievously. But she wouldn’t say anything more.
I readied myself for the surprise.
twenty
(Lily)
December 31st
Imagine this:
You may not own the claim to a friend called Boomer who can get the key to his famous aunt’s cooking studio.
But you are more than delighted to be a beneficiary of said key’s treasures.
Snap. Crackle. Dash yum.
In exchange for said privilege, perhaps the opportunity exists for you to call upon a great-aunt nicknamed Mrs. Basil E. and ask that she telephone a cousin named Mark to harangue this cousin into giving you the key to a very dif erent kind of kingdom.
What do you do?
The answer is obvious:
You get that key.
“Cheap shot, Lily,” my cousin Mark said as he stood at the entrance to the Strand. “Next time, just ask me yourself.”
“You would have said no if I’d asked you.”
“True. Trust you to manipulate what a sucker I am for Great-aunt Ida.” Mark eyed poor Dash, then pointed a nger warily at him. “And you! No funny stuf in here tonight, you understand?”
Dash said, “I assure you I could not contemplate any of your so-called funny stuf seeing as how I have no idea why I’m even here.” Mark scof ed. “You bookish lit le pervert.”
“Thank you, sir!” Dash said brightly.
Mark turned the key to the front door and opened the store to us. It was 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Revelers streamed by along Broadway and we could hear loud, festive gatherings a couple blocks up at Union Square.
This quiet bookstore, our evening’s destination, had closed hours before.
For us, and us alone, it had opened on New Year’s Eve.
It pays to know people.
Or it pays to know people who will call certain cousins and remind them who put aside a trust fund many years ago for their college education and all that’s asked in return is one teensy lit le favor for a Lily bear.
Dash and I stepped inside the Strand as Mark closed and locked the door behind us. He said, “Management has requested that in exchange for this privilege, you two pose for some publicity shots, wearing Strand T-shirts and holding Strand bags. We’d like to capitalize on your fame before the tabloids forget all about you.”
“No,” Dash and I both said.
Mark rolled his eyes. “You kids today. Think everything’s a handout.”
He waited, as if expecting us to change our minds.
He waited a few more seconds before throwing up his hands.
To me, Mark said, “Lily, lock up behind you when you leave.” To Dash, Mark said, “Try anything with this precious baby girl and—”
“STOP DOTING ON ME!” Shrilly let out.
Oops.
Quietly, I added, “We’ll be fine, Mark. Thank you. Please leave. Happy new year.”
“You won’t change your minds about those publicity shots?”
“No,” Dash and I both proclaimed again.
“Baby stealers,” Mark mut ered.
“You’re coming over tomorrow night for Christmas on New Year’s Day dinner, right?” I asked Mark. “Mom and Dad get home in the morning.”
“I’ll be there,” Mark said. He leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Love you, kid.” I kissed his cheek in return. “You too. Be careful you don’t become a growly old man like Grandpa.”
“I should be so lucky,” Mark said.
He then unlocked the front door to the Strand and stepped back out into the New Year’s Eve night.
Dash and I remained inside, staring at each other.