Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2)

by Kathryn Andrews

  Looking to the left, I glance at the twelve pie crust dough balls sitting on two large cookie sheets. I need to get each one split in two, flattened, wrapped in plastic wrap, and in the refrigerator for at least an hour. I can do this. I can get it all done in time.

  Flouring the counter, I grab the first ball and split it in half with a large knife while answering him. “We had such a haul on pecans this year, I’m doing a twist on a classic pumpkin pecan pie recipe by adding maple, bourbon, and candied bacon.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up. He’s pleased.

  “Will you be making one for us, too?”

  Us. He said us. We’ve never been an us. The us was always him and James, with me in the background wishing I were included. I love how it sounds coming off his lips . . . his full, luscious lips.

  “If that’s what you’d like, I can, but I’ll make us a smaller one. These are all going to be large twelve-inch pies.” I push the wooden rolling pin through the first half.

  “How many do you have to make?” He stretches his arms out as if he’s going to touch the dough and then retracts them. Good thing, because he hasn’t washed his hands.

  “Twenty-three. My plan was to only make twenty this year, but these pies are only going to local people, and how can I say no to them?”

  “How could you ever say no?” he teases, and that’s when my eyes catch the tape around his hand.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  He looks down at it and wiggles his thumb. “My thumb got jammed last weekend, but it’s all right. The swelling is gone, and we’re just keeping it wrapped for a few more days.”

  “Okay,” I say, eyeing him skeptically. Maybe he should leave it on longer than a few days.

  Seeing my facial expression, one side of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

  “If you say so. By the way, why didn’t you text me and tell me you were coming? Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not. Just curious.”

  “I thought a surprise would be more fun.” He’s watching for a reaction with those blue eyes as he lifts his glass and takes a sip of the tea. Am I imagining it, or did he sound a little hesitant? He’s so hard to read; then again, with his job, he’s perfected the neutral look.

  “I’m definitely surprised.” There’s no need to lie. Again, with his job, he’s probably trained to know when someone’s bluffing. He can spot ticks and tells.

  “Since you came to me for my family event, I thought I’d come to you for the holiday.” He leans back a little in the seat.

  “You’re welcome for every holiday. I told you before, this is your home, too. It always will be.” Our eyes connect for a long, heavy pause, and I’m the first to break away.

  Why am I telling him this? He’s made it clear by his absence over the years that this is not his home, that I am not his home, or really even anyone important. The reminder pings a pain deep down, one related to both him and James. Although James keeps in touch and tries to come back here and there, both of them left me. I need to remember this, because odds are, this is temporary anyway. Who knows, maybe this is even a guilt thing. Wouldn’t that just suck for me.

  Instead of responding, he blinks, and his jaw gets sharp as he pinches his lips together to smile. Then he looks around the kitchen and back at me. “All right, put me to work. Tell me how I can help.”

  “Okay, and remember—you asked for this.” I lay the rolling pin down and wipe my hands across my apron.

  Leading him into the dining room, I show him how Marie and I have our shipping system set up. Every day, orders are piling in, and we’ve spent hours and hours bubble-wrapping and packaging.

  “All the invoices from yesterday’s orders are printed here. We’ve found printing and keeping a physical daily log has been easier for us than tracking them in a spreadsheet.”

  He takes the clipboard from me and scans over the list details. Underneath each is the printed order for packaging. The smell of him, clean with hints of his body wash, drifts my way.

  “You had thirty-seven orders placed yesterday?” He looks up at me, awe present in his gaze.

  “Yep.” I can’t help but smile. I’m proud of my little business, and seeing his reaction pleases me more than it should. I work hard, have worked hard for a long time, and it’s nice to have him see that I’ve made something of myself, too. Of course, it’s not on a grand scale like him, but it’s mine and no one can take it from me. “Yesterday was actually one of our slower days.”

  “Wow, Lex, this is incredible. What happens when you run out?” He thumbs through the invoices and then looks over at the inventory we have stacked in the back half of the room.

  “We’ve already run out of the black cherry bourbon filling, so it says out of stock on the website. It’s not black cherry season, but if it’s ingredients I can find, I can make more. Fortunately I haven’t had to yet, but I’m certainly not going to be complaining about the day I do. Marie and I are also tossing around ideas for a December pie filling, something easy, and something I can make a lot of.”

  “This all sounds great. I’m proud of you.” He looks back and forth again between the clipboard and me, smiling.

  “Thank you.”

  A blush rises. I feel the heat of it, and I also feel the prick of happiness in my eyes. He doesn’t realize what him saying this to me means, but I know. Blinking quickly to hide the emotion, I turn back toward the setup.

  “So, I think what I’ll have you do is line up the boxes in order.” I walk around the dining room table to point things out. “I have different sizes over there, so bubble-wrap what was ordered, and then you’ll drop in the invoice. The bubble wrap is there, and it’s precut to fit around each jar. Afterward, I’ll come behind you to finish them up. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great. What does it look like when it’s finished?”

  I stop at the opposite end of the table and explain the final touches. “We tie raffia around each jar, drop in an accompanying thank you card, and then top it off with foam peanuts. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s felt like a lot with how many orders there’ve been. Once we seal the box, we immediately adhere the label—which is on the invoice form you’re putting in the box, so be sure to remove it before closing it up—and then that right there”—I wave my hand toward the machine perched on the corner of the table—“is a digital postal scale. We weigh the package, it prints a postage sticker, and then I set the finished boxes by the front door. Jerry from the post office comes and picks them up for me.”

  “Wow, that’s convenient.” He glances at the few boxes I already have sitting there.

  “Tell me about it. Saves us so much time.”

  “Okay, do the first one with me, and then I’ll take it from there.”

  He watches as I look at the first order, which is for three pecan fillings. I pull and assemble a medium-sized box, wrap the jars, and take off the shipping label. Then I drop in the invoice, affix the label, seal the box, and place it on the floor where I want him to line them up.

  “Got it?”

  “Yep. You get back to those pies.” He smiles at me and I stop breathing, feeling the need to pinch myself.

  The rest of the afternoon flies by pretty quickly. As often as I can, I sneak glances at him. He’s so focused as he works, and I laugh to myself wondering what these people would think if they knew this great quarterback was the one packing up their items.

  One by one, people stop by to pick up their pies, and every time, eyes go wide upon seeing Bryan here. He’s gracious enough to take a few photos, signs whatever people shove at him, and I know by the end of the night, the whole town will know he’s here, if not the world. He doesn’t seem to be anxious about this, so I try not to be either.

  Candied Bacon

  WHEN I HAD the idea to come and help her, I didn’t think it would be as fun as it is. Sure, the work is tedious, but it’s allowed me a glimpse into her everyday life, and I like it way more than I thought I w
ould. Granted, thinking the house was on fire and burning down with her in it wasn’t fun, but she had it handled. I hate that it just reminds me she’s out here all by herself. How some guy hasn’t swooped in and claimed her, I’ll never know.

  After about an hour of being here, the faint whiff of pecan pie enters the dining room, and my stomach starts growling. Little by little, the smell gets stronger, and I could die in bakery heaven. How does she work like this every day? If my stomach had its way, it would end up eating more than I sold and I’d be as big as an elephant.

  Frequently, I feel her watching me from the kitchen, but when she isn’t, I do the same to her. I don’t think she even realizes how beautiful she is. She always has been, but seeing her like this . . . it’s something else. I meant it when I told her I was proud of her. I know us leaving and her having to take care of GiGi toward the end had to have been hard, but look at her now. I find everything about her and this business she’s built incredible.

  I’ve thought a lot over the years about the type of person I would need my partner in life to be, and the thing I always come back to is that I need someone who’s driven like I am. I know she doesn’t have that need to be perfect like I do, but she’s never been one to do nothing. Her drive is different than mine, but she still has ambition. She likes what she does, and she clearly loves her business, a quality I find so attractive. I don’t think I could ever be with someone who did nothing, a stay-at-home wife. I need them to have a burn for more; I need there to be an equal understanding. It just wouldn’t work with someone who spends their life constantly waiting around for me.

  Behind me, the doorbell rings.

  “That’s our last pie pickup,” Lexi says as she zips around me and opens the door. Everyone who’s come by has been so excited to pick up their pies, and I can’t help but be excited with them. It’s clear the people in this town adore her, and how could they not?

  “Good evening, Mrs. Caruso!” she says, holding up the pie box.

  “Hello, dear.” She smiles warmly at Lexi and then her eyes skip over to me and light up. “Oh, and hello to you, Bryan.”

  I give her a nod as her gaze dances back and forth between us. Mrs. Caruso was the twelfth grade language arts teacher at our high school, and she gives us a knowing smile. I smile with her because I know too.

  Walking over, I stand close to Lexi, wishing I could wrap my arm around her. “Hello, Mrs. Caruso. How have you been?”

  “I’m good. Not as good as you”—she winks—“but I’m retired now and loving the time with my grandkids.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “So, you’re here with our girl Lexi?”

  “I am. She was nice enough to let me come spend Thanksgiving with her.” I look down at her, and her cheeks are pink, but she still rolls her eyes—forever feisty. My smile widens.

  “Well, it’s about time you two got together. Took you long enough.” She nods knowingly.

  Lexi lets out a small noise, and I can’t help but chuckle. That’s twice now I’ve been called out. At least I’m here now—better late than never, right?

  “How about you take a picture with us? My son will get a kick out of this.” She moves to dig for her phone in her purse.

  Lexi steps away from me and starts shaking her head. “Oh, Mrs. Caruso, are you sure you don’t want one of just the two of you? Look at me—I’m a mess.”

  She doesn’t look like a mess to me. She changed her clothes just before people started arriving, and although she wrapped another apron around her, her ass looks damn good in those tight jeans.

  “Don’t be absurd. You look just fine, dear. I want it with you both.” She hands her phone over to me.

  “If you insist.” Lexi frowns as she takes off the apron and smooths out her clothes.

  Mrs. Caruso comes to stand between us, holding up her pie, and we all smile as I stretch out my arm and take a selfie. It’s the last photo of the night.

  Picture requests happen everywhere I go. I’m used to people stopping me to ask me to take a photo with them. It comes with the territory, which is why I really never leave the house in anything but endorsement gear. It doesn’t bother me, but I do worry that it bothers Lexi. Whether she realizes it or not, these pictures will end up online. We’ll both be tagged since everyone here knows her, and I can only pray I haven’t just unleashed a shitstorm on her life.

  “Well, thank you both. I’ll just be on my way now.” She smiles at us again and then heads out to her car.

  Closing the door, Lexi turns to face me, claps her hands together, and then waves them over her head. “All done!” She throws one hand up in my direction for a high five, and I oblige her. Adorable comes to mind. “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving,” she draws out.

  “I could eat.” I shrug. My stomach rejoices by growling again, not so silently demanding pie.

  Lexi laughs as she moves past me and heads back to the kitchen. I follow, because how could I not?

  “I’m done cleaning up the mess from today, so I can cook something for us.” She turns to face me, runs her gaze over the length of me, and frowns. “What do you eat?”

  “I’ll eat anything, but mostly I eat whole foods—a lot of vegetables, lean meats, fish.”

  “Okay, I wasn’t sure, given you look like this”—she waves her hand in my direction—“but I can work with that. Helps me with cooking for tomorrow, too.”

  “You really don’t have to do anything you weren’t planning on doing. Don’t make something just on account of me being here.”

  “I know, but it is Thanksgiving.” She tosses me a grin and then moves over to the refrigerator. She opens the doors, and I move to stand behind her as we peer in. “Hmm,” she mumbles, “how about a roasted vegetable pizza?” She glances back at me.

  “Sounds great,” I reply, but my eyes are caught on the lone slice of pie sitting on a small yellow plate on the top shelf. She follows my gaze then quickly bumps my hip with hers to move me out of the way so she can close the door.

  “Why don’t you run out and grab your things while I get this going?” She dumps the vegetables on the counter, along with a ball of dough wrapped in plastic and a container of sauce.

  “Do you have every kind of dough just always ready to go?”

  She laughs. “I do. When I make it, I make large quantities. Work smarter, not harder, right? It’s all freezable.”

  “That makes sense. Do you want any help?” I feel bad watching her make me something to eat. She’s been working in here all day.

  “I’ve got it. Seriously, go get your stuff and settle in. My old bedroom is now the guest bedroom, and it’s all yours.” She gives me an encouraging smile, and I run my hand through my hair.

  “Okay, if you insist.”

  She squares her shoulders. “I do.”

  Walking outside, I pause on the porch to look out across the property as the cold air bites my skin. It’s not unwelcome, being inside with her; it’s warm and comfortable, and it deepens the guilt I have for, one, leaving her for so long, and two, not being here for her. How many other things like the fireplace and roof have happened? She does everything on her own; from what I can see, there is no one to help her. This makes me a terrible friend, not that I can even call myself one, and I can’t even think about how I didn’t show up for GiGi’s funeral.

  Looking back up at the house, I see lights glowing from the windows. Unwanted memories sweep through me as the old familiar longing sets in. I always thought the more time I allowed to pass, the more accomplished I became with my career, the farther away I would get from this feeling, but here it is. It’s a sensation of not belonging, of not being loved and so desperately wishing I could call these people my own.

  I know I didn’t have it bad growing up. For the first ten years, I had my mother who loved me more fiercely than seems humanly possible, and then after that I lived here. My stepfather didn’t love me, making sure to let me know on a daily basis that I was unwanted and h
e was just stuck with me, but I wasn’t abused. I wasn’t turned over to the state; I was brought here. With a different person, I might have been able to relax and enjoy the people he brought into my life more, but instead, I lay awake at night with anxiety, thinking it could all go away at any second, just like my mom, and then what would happen to me?

  Threats were his go-to ammo: “You better stay out of their house. They might be nice, but they don’t want you there.” “Don’t talk too much when you’re around them—they don’t want to hear you. You’re a pissant.” “Get in their way and they’ll ask us to leave.” “Do you like it here? Because I can get rid of you at any time.” You name it, I heard it, and if I’m honest, I still hear it deep down.

  Behind me, the screen door opens, and Lexi moves out onto the porch. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

  Neutralizing my face, I wipe it clean of my ghosts and turn to face her.

  “Nothing. Just got lost in thought.” I move down the steps to go retrieve my bag.

  “Oh yeah? Thinking about anything good?”

  The glow from the house has her backlit, and she looks like an angel—an angel who has never once made me feel like she shared my stepfather’s opinion of me. If anything, she’s always gone out of her way to do the opposite.

  “Nope, nothing that matters.” And really, these scars shouldn’t. The wounds of his words have healed. All that’s left are the faint scars and the reminder that I wouldn’t be who I am today without them.

  “All right, the pizza needs about ten more minutes.”

  “Perfect.”

  Pizza Sauce