I Only Have Pies for You, page 12
“Let me help one heart tonight,” I whispered, then added my mom’s words, feeling their conviction coursing through me. “Then more hearts tomorrow, GG. I promise.”
I stared into her eyes and thought I saw approval in them, as if we’d reached an understanding. I didn’t wait for second guesses or doubts, but went straight into the kitchen. I busied myself turning on the oven and gathering ingredients. Each time thoughts of Julip Freedell’s video, or my fights with Chayton or Zari slunk into my head, I shoved them away. Tonight was about Mom, GG Hazel, and me—the three of us.
First, I mixed the chocolate chip cookie dough, adding in the hefty helping of crushed Heath bars, just like GG Hazel’s recipe called for. I’d looked at the recipe so many times, I remembered much of it, but not the exact measurements. And the rest? Well, if GG had invented her own unique version of Chess pie in the first place, why couldn’t I invent mine? It wouldn’t be exactly like GG Hazel’s, but maybe, I wondered, after all the feuding over her recipe, that was what she’d wanted? For someone to come along who could put enough heart into the pie to make it her own?
I smiled to myself as I stirred the Heath bar in, wondering how Hazel had thought of that ingredient in the first place. I hadn’t even known they’d had Heath bars in the 1940s, and I made a mental note to ask Mom about it later.
I slid the cookies into the oven, and as I waited for them to bake, I mixed the pie filling. Some of the ingredients—buttermilk, eggs, sugar, vanilla—were the same ones Mom used in her Chess pie. As I mixed, a small voice whispered in my head that it wasn’t quite right. Not for the Dacey Culpepper Biel version. Then it came—inspiration, sweet and bright as my great-grandmother’s hug might’ve been. Feeling excited, I poured in two scoops of dark chocolate morsels, plus another hefty helping of crushed Heath. It was different than any recipe I’d ever seen Mom make, but that seemed to make it easier for me to bake it. This time, I wasn’t comparing my skill to anyone else’s. This time, it was just me, alone in Pies N’ Prattle. Only I didn’t feel alone. I felt myself surrounded by the memories of the women who’d been here before me. They weren’t judging but guiding, like footprints I was stepping in to get where I wanted to be.
As I worked, the kitchen filled with the buttery, chocolatey scent of fresh-baked cookies, and when I pulled them from the oven, they were golden-brown perfection. Yes! So far, so good. I cautiously bit into one and smiled. They tasted even better than they looked.
Once they’d cooled enough, I crumbled the cookies into a bowl and then spooned in softened butter until the mixture solidified enough that I could press it into the bottom of the pie pan for the crust. Then, with steady hands, I carefully poured the pie filling into the pan, and slid the pie into the oven. For some long seconds, I held my breath, waiting—and dreading, too. The stories of Culpepper curses were hornets in my head, peskily buzzing. I’d gone rogue, and it had felt right, but it might (quite literally) blow up in my face. Food poisoning, a fire, a—gulp—mouse? All had happened to Culpeppers before me … but—
“No!” I said out loud, startling myself. “Be quiet!” It wasn’t directed at GG Hazel, but to the aunts, cousins, strangers who’d tried to make her pie for all the wrong reasons, or tried for the right reasons but maybe at the wrong time. “This is my pie, and you’ll let it be!”
The words echoed in the kitchen for a moment, and then all was quiet—the shop and the whispers in my head. And that was when I laughed at the ridiculousness of what I’d just done, but also at the bravery of it. Maybe—just this once—my temper would prove a help to me.
With the inexplicable but solid sense that I’d somehow set something to rights, I went into the main room and curled up in an armchair to wait for the pie to finish baking. I pulled out my phone from my pocket to check in with Mrs. Beaumont, but I saw a barrage of texts. There were several from Bree and Maria and a dozen texts and two voice mails from Zari, begging me for info on my mom. My heart ached when I heard the concern in Zari’s voice, and I began to dial her cell, then stopped.
I knew that Zari’s concern for Mom was genuine, just like I knew that Zari’s “tabloid” reporting was really her outlet for the frustration of living in a town she felt she was outgrowing. But none of that changed the fact that she’d gone too far. I wasn’t sure I could trust her anymore, but if I couldn’t, how could the two of us stay best friends?
Finally I opted to text both Bree and Maria one simple message: MOM WILL BE FINE. I’M FINE, TOO. TALK MORE 2MRW. I knew the lack of details would disappoint them, but it was all I was up to right now. They’d tell Zari, I was sure. I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. I wasn’t sure when I would be. If I would be. The thought saddened me. To distract myself from it, I called Mrs. Beaumont, telling her I’d be home in about an hour, and then my phone dinged one more time.
My heart jumped when I saw it was a text from Chayton:
HEARD YOUR MOM IS ALL RIGHT. WANTED TO CALL, BUT I KNOW YOU DON’T WANT ME TO. YOU WANT ME TO LEAVE YOU ALONE, SO I WILL. FROM NOW ON. I JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU THAT I’M SORRY. ABOUT YOUR MOM. ABOUT EVERYTHING.
I sat back in the armchair, staring at the text. My eyes welled up again, but whether the tears were from anger or sadness, I wasn’t sure. Chayton was apologizing for everything, which had to mean he was admitting he’d taken the recipe. Only, now that I was calmer and my initial fury had left me, the idea didn’t sit right with me.
He’d worked so hard to earn my trust over the last few weeks. More than that, he’d told me he liked me. We’d almost kissed. Had it all been a performance? A ruse?
The timer beeped in the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced at Chayton’s text one last time, then deleted it. Swallowing down my mixed feelings, I made my way to the kitchen, wondering if I’d be met with a rotten-socks stench that meant the “curse” had struck again.
But when I opened the oven door, I was met with an otherworldly aroma—toffee, chocolate, and butter bliss. There it was—baked to a scrumptious golden color with bits of melted toffee and chocolate freckling the top. I smiled. I’d done it. The first pie I’d ever successfully baked, and one nobody had succeeded in baking in nearly half a century. It was GG Hazel’s famous Heartstring Pie.
I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of Dad’s truck rumbling into our driveway. I sat up and took in the late morning sunlight slanting through my bedroom window, then glanced at my clock. It was eleven a.m.!
I heard familiar voices in the kitchen—Mrs. Beaumont’s … and Mom’s! My heart scampered. Mom was home from the hospital. A minute later, I saw Mrs. Beaumont walking down our front walk and onto Main Street.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. For a minute I wondered if my midnight baking spree at Pies N’ Prattle had only been a dream. But no … there was the Heartstring Pie on my windowsill, looking just as picture-perfect in daylight as it had when I’d pulled it from the oven.
I dressed, scooped up the pie, and went in search of Mom. I was relieved to find her nestled in bed. Her left arm, in its cast, was propped up on pillows. Even though she was pale, she was looking mostly perky. Dad was busy setting up a small folding bed tray for her.
“Hey, Honeybee,” Dad said to me. “I’m gonna fix your mom some breakfast, and then I’ll take you to school. I already called and told them you’d be late.” He added, with a wink in Mom’s direction, “Try to keep her resting, will ya?”
Sure enough, the second Dad was gone, Mom whispered, “I’m already plotting my escape.”
I laughed. “I figured as much. I’m so glad you’re okay,” I added, feeling a lump in my throat as I moved toward her.
“Course I am. Tootsie hasn’t seen the end of me yet.” She shifted against her pillows, then winced. “She did manage to give me a whopper of a headache, though.”
“It still hurts?”
“Doctor Higgins says it will for a few days. The more rest I get, the faster I’ll heal.”
I sucked in a breath, seeing the opportunity I’d been waiting for. “Well, I made you something that I hope might help.” I pulled the pie from behind my back and set it on the bed tray.
Mom stared down at it, her expression pleased and surprised. “Dacey! You baked this beautiful pie?”
“I know! Crazy, right? Nothing burned or crumbled. Or imploded. Last night, I wanted to do something for you. And I realized I remembered some of the recipe, and I improvised a little—”
“Wait.” Mom’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that this … this is—”
“Heartstring Pie.”
Mom gasped. “And nothing happened to you? To it?” Worry clouded her eyes.
I laughed. “Nothing yet.”
“B-but that’s never happened before—”
“Shhhh!” I interrupted, “Don’t jinx it!”
Mom nodded, staring at the pie, then giggling in a way that made her sound much younger than she was. “Dacey, I can’t believe it.” She covered her mouth with her hand, tearing up. “You actually baked GG Hazel’s pie.”
My cheeks flushed. “I haven’t tasted it yet. But, I don’t know, I think it’s going to be okay. I really do. I feel it …”
“Jim?” Mom called out to my dad. “We need some forks.”
Not a minute later, Dad reappeared holding the forks, his eyebrows raised in question. When he noticed the pie, his jaw dropped. “That’s not—”
“It is. And we’re going to taste it.” Mom held out her hand for the forks. “Alone.” She gave Dad a pointed but affectionate look that clearly said, Girl time.
“Your wish is my command, your majesty.” Dad grinned, bowing as he placed the forks in her hand, and then backed out of the room, still bowing.
I felt a wave of love toward them both: toward Mom, for understanding that if something was wrong with this pie, I’d want it to stay between the two of us. And toward Dad, for taking her cue, no questions asked.
Mom and I looked at each other, then at the pie. “On the count of three?” I suggested.
“One. Two,” Mom counted.
“Three!” we said together, then dipped our forks into the pie. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, not daring to look at how the pie held together on my fork. The bite was smooth and chewy all at once, with vanilla custard undertones and chocolate and toffee accents. The crust gave it just the right amount of cookie crunch.
It was … good. Really, really good.
“Yum,” I breathed, diving in for a second taste.
“Yum is right.” Mom took a hefty second scoop of pie, slid it into her mouth, and then leaned back against her pillows, beaming. “Dace. It’s incredible.”
I started to argue, but found that I couldn’t. Besides, my mouth was too full of pie. I started giggling, half in shock. “I guess it is,” I managed to reply.
“You did it.” Mom’s face glowed with pride. “You broke the curse.”
I swallowed down the piece of pie. “If there ever was a curse.”
“Hush, Hazel might be listening,” Mom said teasingly. “How did you do it?”
I tried to explain. “All the other times I’ve baked, I tiptoed through the recipe like it was a minefield or something. This time, I got caught up in the moment, and …” I shrugged. “I forgot to tiptoe.” I took another bite of pie, letting it melt in my mouth. “Mmmm. It’s got the gooeyness of cookies straight out of the oven.”
“Maybe that’s why the boys returning home from the war loved it so much,” Mom said as she chewed.
“Because it made them remember being kids?” I suggested.
“Or it made them remember simple pleasures.”
We were digging into the pie properly now, making a big gap in the middle. “Do you think this is how they ate it? Straight out of the pie pan?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but with a pie that tastes this good, it would’ve been hard to wait for a proper slice.” We laughed, and then Mom set down her fork and slid her hand over mine, looking serious. “Dace, I owe you an apology.”
“Why?”
“I think maybe, without meaning to, I’ve been putting pressure on you.” I opened my mouth, but Mom hushed me. “No. Let me say this. Please.” She held my gaze. “Even before you were born, I had this idea of what I wanted for you. I had this picture of you and me baking, side by side. Keeping GG Hazel’s dreams alive together.” She cocked her head. “I’m not sure why parents do that to their kids, but we do. We have expectations, dreams we want them to fulfill, long before they even have a say in the matter.” Her eyes welled. “And the bakery meant so much to me, I was so sure you’d love it, too.” She leaned toward me, squeezing my hand. “But I promise you that if you don’t, it’s okay. I love you, and I could never force you to do something you didn’t find joy in—”
“Mom,” I interrupted quietly. “I do love the bakery. So, so much.” I heaved a breath. “That’s why it killed me that I couldn’t bake. This whole time, I felt like I was letting you down. Disappointing you, and Grandma, and GG Hazel. Like I was the first Culpepper failure.”
“No—” Mom looked horrified by the thought.
“But,” I continued, “it wasn’t you who pressured me. I did it to myself. And when I failed …” I sighed. “Well. My temper never helped much.” I shrugged. “I see that now, because last night, when I was alone in the bakery, I forgot about being nervous, and all the times I’d messed up recipes. For the first time, I felt like I was a part of the Culpepper tradition instead of standing outside of it. Everything just … clicked.”
I let out a breath, and Mom pulled me into a hug with her good arm. “Oh, Dacey, I’m so sorry you felt that way. And I’m so glad you told me.” She kissed my cheek.
“There’s something else, Mom.” I smiled. “I think I figured out what GG’s words meant. When she said, ‘The secret to the sweetest of pies is hidden in the heart of Bonnet’?” Mom nodded expectantly. “She meant love. To her, love was the sweetest of pies. It was what she put into her Heartstring Pie that made people feel better.”
“I know you’re right.” Mom’s eyes got even tearier, and she hugged me again. “It’s the sweetest of pies for me, too, Dace. For all of us. I’m proud of you, and …” She pointed at the pie. “… I cannot believe how delicious your pie is.”
“GG Hazel’s pie,” I corrected, but Mom shook her head.
“It’s yours now, too, Dace. You found the recipe and you were the first one to bake it after all these years.” She brushed away her tears, smiling, and sat back. “You know what I think? I think GG Hazel meant for you to find it. I really do.”
I felt a little shiver of joy, but then I giggled. “I don’t know, Mom. You also believe her spirit lives in a 1940s newspaper clipping.”
“I do not,” Mom protested, then added quietly, “most of the time.”
We laughed, and then I sobered as a new thought struck me. “Mom, the Bonnet Fair’s this Saturday. The pies for the pie-eating contest—”
“I know.” Mom plucked a piece of Heartstring Pie crust from the pan and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as she relished its flavor. “I won’t be able to bake the pies. If I did, my concussion would last longer. Brain rest means no books, no TV …” She sighed. “No baking.”
“Everyone will understand.”
Mom scoffed. “I know one person who won’t.”
“Julip.” Just saying her name made anger rise in my throat. “But she’s already got her golden ticket. The Heartstring Pie recipe.” My hands tightened to fists at the thought.
“Dacey.” Mom’s voice held a note of warning. “I don’t like what she did, either. But on a scale of one to ten, split ends to bubonic plague, this is—”
“A ten,” I finished.
“Not even a five,” Mom corrected. “There are so many worse things that could happen.” She gave me a look. “There’s nothing like having a near miss with a five-hundred-pound pig to keep things in perspective. I’m okay. I have you and your dad. And we have the shop.”
“But, Mom, business is still slowing, and if more people move out of town, then—”
“Then we’ll see. We’ll do our best and see what happens. I don’t want to lose the shop, but I—we—will get through it. And …” She gestured to the pie. “… we have this amazing pie. It’s already making me feel better. It truly is.” She took another enormous bite. “Ith reabby ish sho good,” she mumbled around her mouthful.
We laughed, and I hugged her. “Love you.”
“You too.”
“Whoa,” Dad’s voice came from the doorway. We glanced up to see him holding a plate of eggs and bacon while he eyed the remains of the pie. “A half-finished pie in under five minutes? That’s a good sign.”
Mom’s eyes shone with a pride that made me blush. “Just look at the Heartstring Pie our daughter made.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than look.” Dad set the plate down on the dresser, then swooped over and snatched the fork from my hand, nudging me off the bed.
“Hey!” I protested as he dug into the pie. “Did you forget you’re supposed to take me to school?”
“Nu-uh.” He shook his head. “Mr. Jenkins stopped by and offered to take you. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”
Mr. Jenkins? I was filled with an instant dread at the idea of seeing him after all the things I’d said to Chayton in the stable yesterday. But I made my expression a mask of composure, not wanting to give Mom anything to worry about except her recovery.
Dad took a bite of the pie and closed his eyes. “Bliss! Euphoria!” I started to laugh, but then Dad opened one eye. “Be gone with you. I’m very busy taking care of your mother.”
“More like busy eating pie.” Mom blew me a kiss. “See you after school.”
I walked to the kitchen, listening to my parents’ voices hitting happy notes as they talked. I didn’t know if it was the simple fact that I’d baked it, or if it really did have some sort of inexplicable knack for healing, but that pie had a way of cheering people up. Even as I reached the kitchen and saw Mr. Jenkins standing there, clutching his Stetson in his hands, even as my heart jittered at his steady, almost stern gaze—a strange peace was settling over me, an assurance that like Mom said, everything would be all right in the end.
