she would be. This guardianship thing was even harder than it sounded. The thought of leaving her niece here actually made her feel ill.
Jazmine’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “I’m not a kid, you know.”
So nine-year-olds weren’t kids anymore? Could’ve fooled Shana, but rather than argue, she let the comment slide.
Enrolling Jazmine turned out to be surprisingly easy. After Shana completed a couple of forms and handed over a copy of her guardianship papers, it was done. Jazmine was led out of the office and into a classroom. Shana watched her go, forcing herself not to follow like a much-loved golden retriever.
“It’s your first time as a guardian?” the school secretary asked.
Shana nodded. “Jazmine’s been through a lot.” She resisted the urge to mention Peter’s death and the fact that Ali was out at sea. Instinctively she realized that the less anyone knew about these things, the better for Jazmine.
“She’ll fit right in,” the secretary assured her.
“I hope so.” But Shana wasn’t sure that was true. There were only a few weeks left of the school year. Just when Jazmine had managed to adjust, it would be time for summer break. And what would Shana do with her then? It was a question she couldn’t answer. Not yet, anyway.
With reluctance she walked back to her parked car and drove to Olsen’s Ice Cream and Pizza Parlor. She’d thought about changing the name, but the restaurant had been called this for the last thirty years. A new name might actually be a disadvantage, so she’d decided to keep everything the same for now.
Shana’s day went smoothly after her visit to the school. She was on her own now, her training with the Olsens finished. They insisted the secret to their pizza was the tomato sauce, made from their special recipe. That recipe had been kept secret for over thirty years. Only when the final papers had been signed was Shana allowed to have the recipe, which to her untrained eye looked fairly unspectacular. She was almost sure her mother used to make something similar for spaghetti and had gotten the recipe out of a “Dear Abby” column years ago.
There was a huge mixing machine and, following the Olsens’ example, she went into the shop each morning to mix up a batch of dough and let it rise. Once the dough had risen, it was put in the refrigerator, awaiting the day’s pizza orders. The restaurant opened at eleven and did a brisk lunch trade. How much or how little dough to make was complete guesswork. Shana’s biggest fear was that she’d run short. As a consequence she usually mixed too much. But she was learning.
At three o’clock, Shana found herself watching for the school bus. Jazmine was to be dropped off in front of the ice-cream parlor. From noon on, she’d constantly checked the time, wondering and worrying about her niece. The elementary students she’d seen looked like a rough crowd—okay, maybe not the first-and second-graders, but the ones in the fifth and sixth grades, who were giants compared to Jazmine. Shana just hoped the girl could hold her own.
Business was constant—people waiting to catch ferries, high-school students, retired folk, tourists. Shana planned to hire a part-time employee soon. Another idea she had was to introduce soup to the menu. She’d already experimented with a number of mixes, both liquid and dry, and hadn’t found anything that impressed her. Shana was leaning toward making her own from scratch but her experience in cooking large batches was limited.
A bus rolled into view and Shana instantly went on alert. Sure enough, Jazmine stepped off, wearing a frown, and marched inside. Without a word to Shana, she slid into a booth.
“Well,” Shana said, unable to disguise her anxiety, “how was it?”
Jazmine shrugged.
“Oh.” Her niece wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details. Thinking fast, Shana asked the questions her mother had bombarded her with every day after school. “What did you learn? Anything interesting?”
Jazmine shook her head.
“Did you make any new friends?”
Jazmine scowled up at her. “No.”
That was said emphatically enough for Shana to surmise that things hadn’t gone well. “I see.” Glancing over her shoulder, Shana sighed. “Are you hungry? I could make you a pizza.”
“No, thanks.”
The bell above the door rang and a customer entered, moving directly to the ice-cream case. Shana slipped behind the counter and waited patiently until the woman had made her selection. As she scooped chocolate chip–mint ice cream into a waffle cone, she realized something was different about Jazmine. Not until her customer left did she figure out what it was.
“Jazz,” she said, startled, “where’s your backpack?”
Her niece didn’t answer.
“Did you forget it at school? We could run by to pick it up if you want.” Not until the parlor closed at six, but she didn’t mention that. During the summer it wouldn’t be until eight o’clock; she didn’t mention that, either.
Jazmine scowled even more ferociously.
Shana hadn’t known how much fury a nine-year-old girl’s eyes could convey. Her niece’s anger seemed to be focused solely on Shana. The unfairness of it struck her, but any attempt at conversation was instantly blocked.
It was obvious that someone had taken the backpack from Jazmine. No wonder the girl wasn’t in a happy frame of mind.
Feeling wretched and helpless, Shana slid into the booth across from her niece. She didn’t say anything for several minutes, then gently squeezed Jazmine’s hand. “I am so sorry.”
Jazmine shrugged as if it was no big thing, but it was and Shana felt at a loss. Without her niece’s knowing, she’d speak to the principal in the morning and see what could be done. She guessed it’d happened on the bus or off school grounds.
“Can I use your phone?” Jazmine asked.
“Of course.”
Jazmine’s eyes fleetingly met hers as she pulled a piece of paper from her hip pocket. “It’s long distance.”
“You’re not calling Paris, are you?”
The question evoked an almost-smile. “No.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Shana gestured toward the phone on the back wall in the kitchen.
Jazmine thanked her with a faint smile. This counted as profuse appreciation and Shana was nearly overwhelmed by gratitude. Despite their shaky beginning she was starting to reach this kid.
“I’m phoning my uncle Adam,” Jazmine announced. “He’ll know what to do.”
This uncle Adam seemed to have all the answers. She hadn’t even met him and already she didn’t like him. No one could be that perfect.
On Monday afternoon, Adam Kennedy opened the door to his apartment near Everett Naval Station, glad to be home. He’d just been released from the naval hospital, where he’d recently undergone rotator cuff surgery. His shoulder throbbed and he felt so light-headed he had to brace his hand against the wall in order to steady himself. He’d
